Composed Upon Hyde Park

Ah, let come this stifling breeze now to ye all!
Such sweet sap envelops my every pore,
Shall I await for the ever fresh rainfall?
For I fear the amber of daylight no more.
Dormant they recline on fields of white cotton,
while Hermes pulls his cart from the House of York,
and though worries of the day are forgotten,
they tackle me with ever increasing torque.
Dear Lord! The sun, as the Gods, knows no mercy,
it strikes common men on green parks all the same,
the same as the priests from Westminster Abbey,
wildly wields and waves it’s scorching blade of Flames.

Ah, let come a fresh breeze to the grass of Hyde,
and may it blow through the city, far and wide.

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